Life's But a Walking Shadow

A tall, thick man threw open the heavy oak doors that guarded the desolate hall. In front of him he gently guided a leaking mop bucket, already partially filled with rainwater, with his foot, while his long right arm snaked around a broken mop and a broom that was held together with Spell-o-Tape. Over his left shoulder a large, lumpy canvas bag, its once light color darkened by its years of unhappy work, was hanging limply.

The man himself was in no better shape than his bag. His faded, frayed (and now sopping wet) robes were inches too short, revealing mottled, hairy ankles, permanently gray from mysterious bruises. His shoe's soles were peeling away, and from one unwelcome hole erupted a shaggy toe with a yellow toenail. The man's belly hung out obtrusively. He was naturally a thick man, as to balance out his height, and in his prime he might have been known as a Goliath: a strong giant of mythological proportions. Now, however, a bulging physique had melted into a fat, flabby waist. His shoulders were shrunken, so his long arms seemed to just drop off from his neck. A wrinkled, bronzed face was veiled by a mass of graying facial hair. The course bristles of his mustache, beard, and also (strangely enough) his unibrow and sideburns trapped multicolored, miniscule food particles. He smelled, and looked, as though he never bathed, and never cared. Whether or not that was true nobody would ever know.

He set down his supplies, and on the dirty canvas bag there was a barely legible smudge. In faded blue ink, the name 'Nibaw Zamir,' a foreign name, was written, almost sideways, in scrunched and choppy handwriting. Zamir drew from his bag a long, thin stick of wood with something scarlet poking out of one end: a wand, phoenix feather core. He reached in again and pulled out a feather duster, which appeared to be made out of stray owl feathers found on the ground, and a green rag.

After cracking his swollen knuckles, Zamir brandished the wand over his cleaning supplies. They feebly stirred to life, as if, even as inanimate objects, they despised their humble chore. Zamir dropped his hulking frame onto the creaky wood floor with a resonating thud, and pulled a large loaf of dry bread out of the forlorn looking sack. His dull dirt-colored eyes monitored the apparatuses in their work.

The floor was coated with a film of mold and mud. Floor to ceiling windows loomed high over the room, and the dim light that filtered in was stained by the grime that covered the once gleaming glass. Chairs lay covered with spider webs and a thin layer of filth. The room looked dilapidated, neglected, and sad in every meaning of the word. The rain streaks on the windows made patterns of large tear tracks emerge on the floor below.

The broom skimmed the surface of the dusty wooden floor. The mop and bucket followed sloppily, splattering soapy water over the ground. The duster glided gracefully, as if inheriting the soaring ability from the owners of its components, over chairs, table, shelves, and windowsills. The rag wiped grime off of the tall windows that patterned one wall of the building.

Zamir lounged lazily, chewing on his bread. The tedious chores completed, he flicked his wand and everything flew back into place. He wound his arm around the mop and broom, replaced the rag and duster into the bag, and replaced the bag on his shoulder. He positioned his colossal structure behind the bucket and began shuffling awkwardly towards the door.

He paused. Zamir hesitated, mulling something over in his head. With a weary sigh, he turned and flicked his wand twice, muttering foreign sounding words. The soapy mess disappeared off the floor and candles and fireplaces sprang to life. Contented, Zamir turned and threw open the oak doors, heading out into the rain.

It was a rare afterthought to perform those last two tasks. As a funeral hall janitor, he was simply expected to mop and dust. But today, it was rumored that someone famous might come; it was rumored that even Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, might turn up for the memorial. And special people sometimes required special services.

Zamir shoved the heavy door shut behind him. He pulled his bag over his head to protect it from the rain, and headed up the flooded cobblestone path of Diagon Alley.